


Two Promises

by lenin_it_to_win_it



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: 'joys of the flesh sexy-sex opera' erik, (over-reactive impulsive bitch at times but feels bad abt it and 10/10 would die for christine), F/M, M/M, Multi, Some angst, also.. idk what fucking canon these people are dont ask, and christine is uh, and erik cries A Lot and occasionally starts talking in 3rd person, and raoul is pretty leroux, but!! shes kind and compassionate and we stan!!, character growth for all!!, definite snark, erik and raoul WILL care about eachother by the end damn it!!, especially at the beginning, hes definitely more 'i want a wife so we can walk in the park' erik than, i mean the darogas there, kind of leroux? i guess?, she a whole ass mess, whosmt the fuck knows
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-09-26 23:37:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17151194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lenin_it_to_win_it/pseuds/lenin_it_to_win_it
Summary: For over a year, Erik has lived with Christine and her husband, Raoul de Chagny. Raoul hates and fears Erik, and Erik loathes and resents Raoul, but Christine cannot live without either one of them. Their shared past haunts them all, and every interaction is rife with tension. The only things holding this tenuous family together are the promises Raoul and Erik have made to Christine. When Christine leaves on a six-month tour to perform in some of Europe's most prestigious opera houses, these promises are tested, and Raoul and Erik must learn to get along- before it's too late.





	1. Erik's Promise

**Author's Note:**

> so i wasn't planning to post this until it was done, but I don't want my first-ever phantom of the opera fic to be the horrendous crackfic garbage I wrote as a christmas present for my friend so i guess we're taking this a chapter at a time, strap in bitches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christine lets Erik give her one final music lesson before she departs on her journey.

“No, that’s wrong. From the beginning.”

Christine stared at Erik in consternation. He stared back beneath the mask, inflexible. Erik had always been a strict teacher, but he was being harsher and more uncommunicative than usual. Christine knew why, but that didn’t make his sullenness any easier to deal with.

“What did I do wrong?” Christine asked, her tone careful, neutral. “I wouldn’t want to make the same mistake twice.”

“All of it. It’s all wrong. From the beginning.”

Deciding it wasn’t worth trying to argue with Erik in this state, Christine started to sing the opening measures again.

“That is _not_ the beginning.”

“Yes, it is.” Christine didn’t bother to hide her irritation. “That’s where the duet starts.”

“I said start at the _beginning_ , not the beginning of the _duet_.”

Christine shook her head. “Well, I’m certainly not starting from the beginning of the opera, if that’s what you meant. I don’t have time to play your games today.” She rose to her feet and started collecting her sheet music. “If you’re going to be unreasonable, I’m going to leave.”

“ _I’m_ being unreasonable?” Erik snapped. He stood as well, towering over Christine. “ _You’re_ the one making silly, amateurish mistakes that should be beyond you at this point! I only want to help you—”

Christine raised her voice. “I know what you’re up to, and it isn’t going to work.”

“Up to?” Erik’s hands twitched. “What am I up to?”

“You’re trying to distract me so I’ll miss my train,” said Christine, crossing her arms. When Erik didn’t protest, Christine sighed. “I was willing to humor you, at first, because I know this is going to be hard on you. . .” Without meaning to, Christine found herself softening her voice as she met Erik’s eyes. “But you can’t keep me here. You have to let me go.” Erik whimpered, and Christine laid a gentle hand on his arm. “It’s only for a few months.”

“An eternity,” Erik whispered. “An eternity alone . . “

Christine did her best not to sigh. “You won’t die, Erik,” she said, in the firm yet sympathetic tone she so often fell into with him. “And you won’t be alone, either,” she added as Raoul entered the room.

  
Erik tracked her gaze and scowled. “I would rather die alone than live with him.”

  
Raoul rolled his eyes. “Do it, then.”

“Raoul!” Christine tightened her hold on Erik’s arm. If Erik wanted to break free, there was no doubt he could have, but he stayed still. Christine relaxed her grip and sighed. “Thank you, Erik.”

“Oh, yes, thank you, Erik,” Raoul repeated in a mocking tone. “Thank you for not killing me in my own home. Thank you so much for your valiant sacrifice! We’ll give you a medal of honor at once!”

For a moment it seemed as if Erik would lash out in retaliation, but he looked down at Christine and let out a long, shuddering sigh. “I promised. . .”

Christine nodded, relieved. “That’s right. You promised not to harm Raoul—”

  
“—even when I could do so _very easily_ ,” Erik added, raising his voice and glaring at Raoul.

Raoul shrugged, thoroughly unimpressed with Erik’s words, and turned to Christine. “My dear, there is something I wish to speak to you about before you leave.”

“Raoul, please. . .” Christine couldn’t help but let a little exasperation bleed through her words. Raoul was usually so kind and considerate, but, when it came to Erik, he was stubborn and hostile, which inflamed Erik’s own stubborn hostility and made Christine want to break down and scream at the both them. Raoul, at least, should have known better, but he seemed unable to resist fighting fire with fire.

Raoul sighed, taking in the plea in Christine’s eyes. “There’s still a little time before we have to be off. Come and find me when you’re done here.”

Christine flashed Raoul a quick, grateful smile. “I will.” Raoul smiled back, and Christine felt her frustrations lift. “I love you.”

Raoul laughed, his warm, kind laugh that always made Christine want to laugh along. “I love you, too.” He glanced at Erik and his expression clouded for a moment, but he left without addressing him again.

  
Erik growled as the sound of Raoul’s footsteps faded away.

“Erik.” Christine’s admonishing tone made Erik lower his head, but his eyes still seethed with rage. “Erik,” she said, softer than before. The anger in Erik’s eyes began to fade, replaced with a terrible longing that scared Christine far more. Still, she held out her arms, and Erik collapsed around her. Christine traced gentle circles on his back with one hand while he sobbed. “Raoul doesn’t understand, but I do. I know how hard you’re trying.” She laid her head against Erik’s chest, where she could feel his pounding heartbeat and every sharp catch in his breathing. “And I love you for it.”

Erik wept harder, burying his face in Christine’s curls as much as the rigid mask would allow. “My angel. . . you are so good to your poor, pitiful Erik. . . far better than he deserves, the wretched monstrosity. . .”

“Look at me.”

Erik did not move.

“ _Erik_.”

Reluctantly, Erik lifted his head and stepped back, still keeping his arms locked around Christine’s waist. Even at his most vulnerable, his eyes still burned, and Christine had to fight to keep herself from looking away.

“You’re not a monster,” said Christine. Erik snarled his dissent— a monstrous sound— but Christine held firm. “You’re not. You’re someone I care for a great deal, and I won’t let you talk about yourself like that.” She sighed. “Now, can you take that silly thing off and look at me, like I asked?”

With shaking hands, Erik removed his mask. Christine reached toward Erik’s face, hesitating for a moment before he gave her a slight, tense nod. She caressed his ruined cheek, and Erik trembled beneath her touch. His tears were cold against her fingertips.

“See?” Christine whispered. “You’re just Erik, and I’m just Christine.”

Erik’s twisted features contorted further in distress. “No, no. . . Christine. . .” Each word seemed to cost him immense effort; his musical voice was strained, and so was his breathing. His body heaved with sobs. “You. . . you’re an angel. . . You are. . . you’re—” Erik’s words dissolved into a series of sharp, hacking coughs.

Christine’s eyes widened in concern. Watching him cough and choke, it was impossible not to think of the months of illness he had just begun to recover from. “Oh, here, let’s—” She led Erik over to the piano bench and sat down, gently tugging on his sleeve when he remained standing. “Let’s. . . sit down. . . there you go. . .” Erik kept gasping, coughing, and sobbing, unable to speak or breathe, and Christine sat by his side in helpless horror, waiting for the storm to pass as tears gathered in her eyes.


	2. Reaffirmed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik tries to hold himself together during the last precious moments before Christine's departure.

After what felt like hours, Erik managed to regain control of his breathing. His throat was raw, his lunged ached, and his eyes still stung with tears, but he was breathing. For a moment, that was all that mattered: the steady, gentle flow of air, in, and out. Then, the pain faded and the world expanded, and then—

  
“ _Christine. . ._ ”

There she was, staring up at him— at his face, his loathsome, uncovered face!— with eyes made all the more radiant by crystalline tears. The sky in heaven itself could not have been as pure, as bright, as warm a blue as the angelic eyes staring up from that dear, tear-stricken little face.

“ _Christine, my angel. . ._ ”

For only an angel could make Erik so weak with a single glance, so skin-crawlingly aware of his own sickening unworthinesses of flesh and spirit, every fault, flaw, and sin magnified a thousand times in that pure and infinite blue.

And only an angel could look past the distortion and see a soul that longed to be better, to be worthy of the love, and hope, and redemption promised in that pure and gentle blue.

“ _She’s crying. . ._ ”

Erik’s heart seized.

“ _It’s my fault._ ”

The realization sent his fragmented thoughts spiraling into panic. He wanted to fall to his knees and beg forgiveness, for his unworthy tears to shatter at the angel’s feet; he wanted to tear at his flesh until nothing remained, until the angel was free of him; he wanted to kill for her, to die for her, to scream, and scream, and scream. . .

More than anything, he wanted Christine to stop crying.

Erik forced himself to take a deep breath. He would kill for her, he would die for her, but what Christine needed was someone to comfort her— a more difficult task by far.

“ _I know how hard you’re trying,_ ” she had said to him. “ _And I love you for it._ ”

“ _I love you. . ._ ”

If an angel could learn to love a monster, then the monster could learn to sheath its claws and love gently in return.

Erik longed to touch her, but he kept his hands clenched at his sides. Instead, he began to sing the opening measures of the duet Christine had been practicing. His voice soothed Christine at once; she wiped her eyes and began to sing along when her part began. Once they had sung the final notes together, Christine smiled.

“How was it that time?” she asked. “Did I make any mistakes?”

Erik did not smile, but he was sure Christine could see the joy and relief in his eyes. “No, my angel. You were perfect.” He paused. “A little heavy-handed with the vibrato, perhaps, but—”

Christine laughed and gave him a playful swat on the arm. “There’s no pleasing you, is there?”

“I should think not,” Erik replied in his haughtiest, most supercilious manner, determined to play along. Christine giggled, and Erik felt a thrill of triumph race down his spine. When he spoke again, it was in an imitation of Christine’s voice. “There’s no pleasing you, is there?”

Christine shivered, smiling. “You stop that.”

“Would you prefer this instead?” Erik asked, mimicking Raoul. “My name is Raoul de Chagny, and I spend hours in front of the mirror every day arranging my pretty hair and flashing my pretty eyes. I drink only the finest vintages, and I sweat cologne.” Christine bit her lip, refusing to smile, but her eyes shone with silent laughter, so Erik continued. “I’m Raoul de Chagny. I can’t tell Verdi from Vivaldi. I don’t know what an aria is. My favorite part of an opera is the part with the singing. I find it very musical.”

Christine fought valiantly, but she couldn’t hold back an undignified snort of laughter. “Raoul does too know what an aria is!” she protested, trying and failing to look serious. “Almost. He knows it’s an opera term.” She was silent for a moment. “Speaking of Raoul—”

“He wanted to speak with you, yes,” Erik said in a rush, before he could start snarling, or sobbing, or some terrible mixture of both. “Go.” The word was bitter on his tongue, but Christine would go whether he wanted her to or not—he might as well pretend to be a rational human for another second or two. Time enough to be a howling, shrieking, pitiful monster when Christine was gone.

  
“ _Six months without Christine. . ._ ”

Oh, he would perish of it! How could he survive even a day without hearing her voice? How could he will himself to be good without the constant reminder of those forgiving eyes? Maybe it was better to die at once, before he got the chance to harm anyone. Maybe Christine could love him then.  
But, no, Christine had said she loved him already— she loved him for trying, and so Erik would keep trying until the last.

“ _Which won’t be long,_ ” he thought with his usual morbid pessimism. “ _If there is any mercy in this cruel world, I shall be stricken dead the moment she passes from my sight._ ” But Erik knew better than to hope for miracles.

Christine’s voice broke through Erik’s inner thoughts. “You’re right, but that’s not what I meant.” She set her soft hand on his arm; he hadn’t noticed he was shaking until she touched him. “There’s something I have to say to you first.”

“Before you leave.”

Christine lifted her hand from his arm and Erik tensed, thinking he had displeased her, but, no, she laid her hand on his cheek. Erik let out a sigh of relief. “I’ll come back,” said Christine, her voice as gentle as her touch. “And, while I’m gone, I want you to be patient with Raoul.”

“Patient.” Erik spat the word out in contempt. “I haven’t killed him yet, have I?”

“There’s more to patience than not killing someone, Erik.”

“But he has no patience for _me_!” Erik protested. “You see how he provokes me! He despises me! He wants me to break my promise! It’s all part of his scheme— he’s plotting to turn you against me!”

Christine sighed. “Raoul isn’t plotting against you. He does enjoy needling you more than he should, but,” she added before Erik could celebrate his triumph. “It wasn’t easy for him to let you live here with us. It was a sacrifice he made for me, because he loves me, and I care about you.” Christine caressed Erik’s cheek one last time before letting her hand drop. “And you need to make sacrifices, too.”

Erik knew he was supposed to respond, but all he could do was stare at Christine’s hand. How could it still be so perfect after coming into contact with his loathsome flesh? Christine had touched his face before, but Erik marveled at it every time, every time stunned anew that she did not shriek in horror, rot, and die.

“ _Yes, only an angel. . ._ ”

“Erik?”

Slowly, Erik lifted his gaze. When his eyes met Christine’s, his heart threw itself against his ribcage, his breath caught in his throat, his bones trembled, and yet, it all felt distant. His body was there, but his soul— his soul was flying and falling all at once in a beautiful, far-off sky. When his eyes met Christine’s, anything felt possible.

“I promise,” he breathed. “I will make the sacrifice. I will be patient with. . . him, because I love you, and. . .” Erik clenched his hands into fists and ground out the final words. “. . . and you care about him.”

And almost— _almost_ — he said it: “Let me come with you.”

He had said it before, once, sobbing and pleading at Christine’s feet, when she first told him she intended to sing abroad and would be gone for several months. “Please,” he had wept. “Please, Christine. I have nothing else, nothing but you. And I could be useful to you— I have traveled many places, and I can give you lessons, and I can protect you, and— and I’ll die if you leave me! Oh, please, Christine, your poor Erik cannot live without you! Why would he stay here, when you are all that keeps him here?”

Christine had touched his face— so gently, more gently than he ever deserved— and spoke in a calm but confident voice that made Erik lift his head. “You’ll stay because it’s what I ask of you.” When Erik met her eyes, she smiled. “And I trust you.”

Erik had sobbed all the harder after that, of course, but no matter how his heart tore at him afterward, he refused to broach the subject again. He would do anything for Christine— kill for her, die for her, but what need did she have for his violent rages or vile self-abasement? No, it took more than that to be worthy of one such as Christine. Christine needed patience; she needed a man she could trust. To die nobly took only a moment, but a noble life took perpetual sacrifice. If Christine thought him equal to such sacrifice, could speak of trust with such assurance, then Erik was determined to give it, again and again.

“ _I trust you_.”

Erik would not betray that trust now. He held his tongue. Christine leaned forward and kissed Erik’s cheek. “Thank you.”

Erik stiffened in surprise, and tears started to roll down his face. “Christine. . .”

“Be careful,” said Christine, setting a protective hand on Erik’s back. “Remember to breathe.”

“Breathe. . .” Erik roused himself. “Breathing, yes. That reminds me—” He stood and crossed the room, heading for the cabinet where he and Christine stored their sheet music. There, on the top shelf, where Christine could have only found it by standing on a chair, was a thick, carefully bound sheaf of papers, all bearing Erik’s sharp yet elegant handwriting. “Here we are!” said Erik, inflecting his voice with false cheer as he handed the papers to Christine. “For you, of course, my little songbird.” He swallowed. “For your. . . journey.” 

Christine hefted the papers in one hand, and her eyes widened. “What is all this?”

“Notes, musical and otherwise. For practice,” Erik added when Christine continued to look confused. “I. . .” He had to pause to choke back a rising sob. “. . . won’t be there for your lessons while you’re gone, so I thought. . . I planned in advance. . .” Christine was gazing up at him with such a sweet, affectionate expression that it was impossible for Erik to gather his thoughts. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Christine flung her arms around Erik, laughing. “Because you can be so ridiculous at times.”

“Ridiculous?” Erik wanted to be upset, but it was all he could do not to sob with joy. Christine, smiling and laughing, because of _him_. Embracing _him_. “I don’t see anything ridiculous about planning ahead. I know you well enough to predict the mistakes you’re likely to make, and I’ve studied your performance pieces well enough to know which parts will challenge you. If you follow my instructions— and you will, for you are a very good student, when you wish to be—” Erik fell silent as Christine started laughing again. “Well, what is it now?”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Christine replied, a playful glimmer in her eyes. “Go on.”

Erik frowned. “You’re teasing me. If you are not going to take my advice seriously—”

“I will, I will.” Christine looked down at the papers, then back up at Erik. “Really, I appreciate it. I’ll be sure I practice every day and take your notes to heart.” She smiled. “Musical and otherwise.”

Erik attempted a smile of his own. It felt strange and unnatural, and he was sure it looked horrifying, but Christine didn’t run from the room shrieking in terror, so it could have been worse. “I’m glad to hear it, my angel.” He caught Christine glancing at the doorway and swallowed. “You have to. . .”

“You’ll still get to see me off at the train station,” Christine reminded him, taking his hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. “It isn’t goodbye yet.”

Erik couldn’t bring himself to say another word without crying, so he merely nodded, remaining silent until Christine was gone. Then, when he was certain she could no longer hear, Erik broke down in tears, sobbing, shaking, and unable to breathe when confronted with that fatal ‘ _yet_ ’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> raoul might not know what an aria is but at least he knows not to kill people, ERIK


	3. Old Wounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raoul presents Christine with a parting gift.

Raoul paced back and forth in front of the bedroom door, waiting for Christine. Like a fool, he had told her to meet him but forgot to specify _where_ , so he kept close to the bedroom, where Christine would see him as soon as she stepped out of the music room.

“ _As soon as she’s done with that sniveling Erik,_ ” Raoul thought with disdain. The sniveling went on for quite some time, and several minutes passed before Christine emerged, holding a stack of papers. Raoul called out to her and she turned.

  
“Oh, you’re right here,” she said, smiling. “I was wondering where we were supposed to meet.”

Raoul was surprised to see Christine looking so cheerful after such a long conversation with Erik; his mere presence drained Raoul of any warmth or patience, let alone joy. “Well, you’ve come to the right place,” said Raoul, trying to put Erik from his mind. He stepped into the bedroom, and Christine followed. “I have something for you.”

Christine’s eyes lit up. “Another present?”

Raoul shot a wary glance at the papers in Christine’s hand. “He gave you something, too?” So much for not thinking about Erik.

Christine’s face colored. “Well, it’s not a present, exactly. It’s. . . practical.” She set the papers down on the bed and pushed them away with elaborate casualness. “He planned lessons for me in advance, for when I’m gone. It’s nothing, really.”

Raoul nodded, trying not to let his inner thoughts show on his face. It was absurd to be jealous of Erik, and yet—

And yet, the war had never ended, had it? Raoul thought it had ended when he and the daroga had been trapped in the torture chamber, then again when the water started rising, then again when Christine made her miraculous return, claiming that the creature had let her go.

Raoul was beyond overjoyed, but Christine had been distant and cold, as if part of her soul had been left behind in the cellars beneath the opera house. She was still, silent, staring— all the light had gone from her eyes.

“My _living_ wife,” the phantom had said; months later, when Christine still lay in bed for days at a time, eyes as blank as the ceiling they reflected, Raoul felt he could understand what it meant to be married to the dead.

Then the daroga arrived to let them know Erik was dying, and, all at once, Christine came to life.

“I have to see him.”

Raoul had shaken his head. “My dear,” he said, doing his best to remain gentle in spite of his rising anger. “Please, be reasonable.”

Christine was past reason. “I _have_ to see him,” she repeated. Her eyes were flooded with blinding, unstable radiance. They seared into Raoul’s soul.

“Christine. . .”

Raoul didn’t know how to confront her after the months of silence. He couldn’t bear to hurt her, but what would hurt her more— to pull her back into silent misery and snuff the light from her eyes, or to let her plunge once more into the frightful unknown? Perhaps she needed to see her tormentor weakened and helpless before she could put him from her mind once and for all. Once he died, surely the nightmare would end. . .

Raoul sighed. “I’m coming with you.”

Erik was supposed to die. Erik himself seemed ready to die, but that changed the moment Christine took his hand and wept by his side.

  
“Don’t go,” she sobbed. “Please, don’t leave me like Papa. . .”

And the creature had wept, too. “My angel. . .”

His voice was weakened by illness, little more than a tormented whisper, which made Christine cry even harder. “Poor Erik!”

Raoul was stunned. Christine hadn’t cried once in all the months since her escape, but now her tears flowed freely, down the soft contours of her cheeks and onto the harsh, bony outline of Erik’s twitching hand. Every nerve in Raoul’s body was screaming at him to go, to seize Christine’s hand and drag her away from this awful place. He could dry her tears, comfort her, love her. . .

But once the tears were gone, what would be left? Christine was feeling again after so long, even if it was only misery, even if it was for _him_. . .

Raoul couldn’t do it. Anything was better than that silent unlife. He placed a hand on Christine’s shoulder but made no move to pull her away. He let her cry for her poor, pitiful Erik.

Poor, pitiful Erik, whose recovery began the moment Christine begged him to live.

But Christine began to recover, too. That was all that mattered. Raoul would have paid any price to make her smile again, and Erik proved that.

Not that Raoul hadn’t put up a fight when Christine first suggested letting Erik live with them.

“How can you even suggest such a thing?” Raoul had asked, stunned. “After everything he’s done to you— to _us_? He’s far too dangerous, Christine— surely, you can understand that?”

“He’s too sick to be a danger to anyone,” Christine protested. “You’ve seen him for yourself— he’s not even strong enough to sit up on his own, let alone attack someone.” She paused, and, when she spoke again, there was a quiver in her voice that broke Raoul’s heart. “And his throat, his lungs. . . he can hardly speak.” She did not mention his singing, though Raoul knew it must have been on her mind.

“And what if he recovers?” Raoul asked as gently as he could. “Would we not be in danger then?”

  
“He let me go,” said Christine, raising her voice slightly. “He let me go, and he made no effort to ensnare me again, or to attack you, though surely he must have known I would return to you. If he meant us any harm, he would have already made his move.” Christine’s eyes misted over with tears. “Something’s changed in him . . can’t you see it?”

He took Christine’s hands. “Please, Christine,” he whispered. “Don’t let your compassion for him cloud your mind. Have compassion for yourself as well— don’t put yourself in harm’s way for his sake. It is not your duty to save him.”

Christine tore her hands away. “My compassion for him is the only reason I’m still alive.” Her voice was quiet, but there was no softness; her words were hard and cold as ice. “You weren’t the one to save me in the end.”

Raoul had done all he could to remain patient and gentle with Christine, but this was too much. “And I suppose your ‘poor Erik’ is the hero, then?” Raoul snapped. “For rescuing you from the torment he put you through? And I suppose it means nothing that I risked my life for you— that I almost _died_ for you—”

Christine’s eyes widened. “Oh, Raoul, please— I didn’t mean—“

In spite of his anger, hot tears stung Raoul’s eyes. “And I’d still die for you, even now, because I love you so much. . .”

“I love you, too,” Christine whispered, luminous tears flooding her eyes.

“And what about him?” Raoul meant it as an honest question, but it came out as an accusation.

Christine shook her head slowly. “I don’t _know_ ,” she said in a hoarse, horrified whisper. “I know that I should hate him, but I can’t. But I don’t think that I love him, either. . .” She stared up at Raoul with tormented, questioning eyes. “I don’t know if I love him, but I know that I need him. Compassion, pity, fear, or love—” Christine shook her head again. “I can’t explain it, but I can’t go on without him.”

Raoul bit his lip to keep it from trembling. When he trusted himself to speak again, he heard himself say: “Then, go.”

“But I love you!” Christine cried, tears spilling down cheeks made hollow by months spent languishing in despair. “I don’t know what I feel for Erik, but, for you, I have only ever felt love! For as long as I can remember, ever since I was a little girl. . . how could I ever. . .”

Her words broke off into quiet sobs, and Raoul embraced her without hesitation, stroking her hair and whispering words of comfort until she began to calm down. “I will always love you, Christine,” he said softly. “Even when you say things that upset me, or things I could never begin to understand, you are still my wife, and I will stay by your side.” Raoul took a deep breath. “And. . . if you need Erik by your side, too. . .”

More than a year had passed, but even the simplest things were capable of stirring up dark memories and igniting the old conflict, including the stack of papers Christine had set down on the bed.

Raoul cleared his throat. “My gift might not be as. . . _practical_ as Erik’s,” he said, taking a small box out of his pocket. “But I hope you’ll enjoy it, anyway.”

Christine opened the box with an exclamation of delight. “Oh, Raoul! It’s beautiful!”

“Yes, I thought so, too.” Raoul smiled, watching Christine examine the delicate golden bracelet in the light before sliding it onto her wrist. “That’s why it made me think of you. Consider it a parting gift.”

“We’ll only be parted a few months,” said Christine. “It’s not forever.”

“But my love for you is.” Raoul took Christine’s hand and kissed it. “And. . . I’ll miss you,” he said, his voice more subdued than usual. “But I’m proud of you, too,” he added with more energy, smiling and giving Christine’s hand a little squeeze. “Getting to perform in so many of Europe’s finest opera houses— I can’t even imagine how excited you must be.”

Christine had begun healing after her bitter reunion with Erik, but Raoul suspected she had a long recovery ahead of her yet. She was still unstable— too quick to laugh or cry, too dreamily directionless, until the tour captured her focus— but Raoul felt as if the worst was over. Christine needed time, and maybe she needed distance, as well. If nothing else, this tour would give her a much-needed break from Erik and some time to reflect on her own.

  
Christine’s eyes sparkled. “It still doesn’t feel real to me, but I am excited,” she said. “Especially for the performance in Stockholm. Meg’s never been to Sweden before, and I can’t wait to show her how wonderful it is.”“I’m glad she and Madame Giry agreed to go with you,” said Raoul. “I’d hate to think of you travelling so far on your own.”

“I’ll have this, at least.” Christine smiled down at the bracelet. “I’ll wear it always, so I can feel close to you.”

Raoul pulled Christine into a tight embrace, and she closed her eyes with a soft sigh of contentment. “I’ll miss you,” he said again, kissing her forehead.

“Maybe you need a bracelet, too,” Christine suggested, laughing. “We could get a matching pair.”

“What are wedding rings for?” Raoul teased.

Christine tried to keep a straight face. “For matching our bracelets, of course!”

  
Raoul shook his head, smiling. “Maybe when you return, we can have a copy made of this,” he said, touching her bracelet. He kissed her hand, then stepped back. “We should get going soon if we want to make it to the station in time,” he said. “I’ll get your things, and you can—” Raoul paused. “Do you want to get Erik, or should I?”

“About Erik. . .” Christine took a deep breath, glancing down at the ground before meeting Raoul’s eyes. Goodness, love, and determination shone from her face. “I want you to promise you’ll be kind to him while I’m gone.”

“How kind?”

“Raoul!”

“It’s an honest question.” Raoul sighed; he didn’t want to spend his last moments with Christine fighting, but he didn’t want to promise her the impossible, either. “I’m already letting him live here. I don’t know what more I can do.”

“You could stop trying to provoke him so much.”

Raoul couldn’t hide his anger any longer. “He’s done far more than provoke us, in case you’ve forgotten.” Christine paled, and Raoul immediately regretted his words. “I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry.”

“How could I forget?” The quaver in her voice broke Raoul’s heart.

  
“I know you haven’t— I shouldn’t have—” Raoul ran a hand through his hair, frustrated with himself. Why couldn’t he have just promised to play nice with Erik and left it at that? Of course, he shouldn’t have to— he was beyond justified in hating the bastard, and letting Erik live at all, let alone in his house, was more than he deserved— but this wasn’t about what he should have to do: it was about Christine.

For reasons Raoul couldn’t begin to understand, Christine cared about Erik. Maybe she had to care, or the terror of it all would consume her. Maybe caring was a way to forget. Or maybe she cared because her heart wouldn’t allow her to stop.

But she was happy. She was _alive_.

Raoul inhaled sharply. To accept Erik’s presence was to accept that he wasn’t enough, that Christine needed. . . _something_ more he couldn’t provide.

What was it?

Was it talent, was it genius? Raoul was no artist; he didn’t breathe music as Christine and Erik did, and his mind, while apt, possessed no great brilliance. Was that it?

Had she fallen for the phantom’s mystique? Erik was fascinating, in the same way a gruesome murder might be fascinating.

Was he too plain? Too predictable? Did Christine need chaos? Could she bear an ordinary life after living through such extraordinary circumstances?

Did she need to feel needed? As much as Raoul loved Christine, as incomplete as his life would feel without her, he didn’t _need_ her like Erik did. Raoul could survive a broken heart; Erik would let himself die of it, and he would just as soon bring the entire human race down with him.

Raoul exhaled. Those questions haunted him day and night, but nothing could scare him more than the memory of Christine’s lifelessness. Raoul would give Christine all he could— love, stability, devotion— and if she needed something more. . . he would not keep her from seeking it out, whenever she should happen to find it.  
“Please, forgive me, my dear,” said Raoul, taking Christine’s hand. “I love you.”

Christine sighed. “Of course I forgive you.” She lifted his hand and laid it against her soft cheek. “I love you, too.”

  
“And. . .” Raoul cleared his throat. “I promise I’ll try to be kind to Erik. But only for your sake,” he added to head off any unwarranted adulation from Christine. “Not his.”

But Christine embraced him all the same. “Thank you,” she murmured, nuzzling into his chest. “And I’m sorry for putting you through this.” She gave him an apologetic smile. “You must think I’m crazy.”

_“Sometimes.”_

Raoul shook his head. “I might wish you had a more prudent head on your shoulders, but. . .” He couldn’t help but smile as he looked into Christine’s earnest, loving eyes. “I could never fault you for your kind heart.” He leaned forward, questioning, and Christine hopped onto her tiptoes to meet his lips, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. When the kiss ended, Raoul sighed. “I can try to be kind, too.”

_“Whether or not he deserves it.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have to get the Heavy Emotional Stuff out of the way for any of the stuff i actually WANT to write to make sense so bear with me... i dont think the EdgeTM is gonna completely go away bc its. phantom of the opera (and theres A Lot More Baggage left to unpack in this shitshow) but there will be more comedic/light-hearted moments in future chapters, so stay tuned!


	4. Departure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik says goodbye to Christine at the train station

There it was— the train station, the arrival, the departure.

Erik’s breath caught in his chest.

The end.

Heart pounding, lungs quivering, bones trembling— oh, he would die, he would die, he would die! What he wouldn’t give to die, for surely death was less painful than having his beloved Christine snatched away from him. . .

Erik shuddered.

Six months in the bitterest solitude! Six months in the blackest despair! And suppose something happened to make her stay longer? Suppose there was an accident? Suppose— Erik’s heart stopped— suppose she died? Erik would die of it, and he would probably kill the vicomte, just for good measure.

Oh, yes, he was there, too. Erik could feel a snarl of displeasure rise in his throat. That dreadful boy of hers, with those shallow but sparkling blue eyes and that infuriatingly lustrous golden hair that doubtless cost him many hours of maintenance. . . Twirling his hair around this way and that was the only thing this insolent fool had any patience for. In all other matters, he was hot-headed, impulsive, and thoughtless— a nasty, common little creature not the slightest bit worthy of Christine’s divine affections, in spite of his pretty face.

When Erik thought of all he could accomplish with a face like that—

But, no, Erik would not tear the skin from the vicomte’s face, or rip his hair out, or put out his eyes, or arrange any number of convenient “accidents” that would leave him dead and disfigured— he had promised Christine.

Erik let out a shaky breath. Christine, his angel, who was motioning for him to step out of the carriage so she could get through. So she could leave.

“Just come out on my side,” said that ever-impatient and irritable vicomte.

No, Erik would not stand for that! He would overcome the paralysis of grief to stand solemnly but bravely astride the carriage, holding the door open for Christine, like a proper gentleman, and she would be so touched by his kind gesture that she would fall into his arms at once, and promise to never leave him, and cast aside the garish ring the vicomte had given her and promise to love him forever and ever as his wife. . .

Well, he could open the door for her, at least.

Erik held out his hand, mortified by how his skeletal fingers twitched and trembled, but Christine took it without hesitation as she stepped out of the carriage, offering him a sad smile. “I’ll miss you, Erik.”

Erik nearly collapsed to the ground. “You— you will?”

Christine squeezed his hand. “Is that really so hard to believe?”

“Yes.” The reply came instantly. “Impossible, actually.”

Christine sighed, and Erik would have driven a blade through his heart if it would have somehow eased her displeasure. Christine did care about him, and he did know it, on some level, even if he didn’t understand how or why such a thing was possible. But it was.

Erik swallowed. “I’m. . . sorry, my angel.”

“It’s okay, Erik.” Christine’s voice was so soft Erik could barely hear it over the station’s cacophony. She reached up and touched his mask. “Do you think you can take this off so I can give you a kiss goodbye?”

Erik tensed. To take off his mask, in a crowded area, in broad daylight? It was not pride that made him hesitate— no amount of pride would make him forgo a kiss from his angel, he would gladly bear all the world’s hate and derision to feel those lips on his skin for even a second— but fear. His unmasked face would provoke stares, at the very least, and the thought of cruel eyes falling upon his angel, all because she wanted to give him a kiss— no, Erik couldn’t.

Could he?

Erik wished he was more selfless, so he could put aside his own pleasure without difficulty; he wished he was more selfish, so he could take what he wanted without shame. But he was neither the monster he had once been nor the good man he hoped to become; he was nothing but his own, pitiful self. Pitiful, yes, but not so pitiful as to harm Christine. Never again.

“I— I can’t.”

He had expected disappointment from Christine, maybe even anger, but he had underestimated his angel. Christine smiled. “Well, then, you’ll just have to kiss me.”  
Erik choked. Christine had kissed him before— his forehead, his cheeks, his hands— but never once had he kissed her. That felt forbidden, somehow, although Christine had never set such a rule. But now. . . if she wanted him to. . .

Before he was conscious of coming to a decision, Erik pressed his lips against Christine’s forehead. Then, the moment he realized what he was doing, he pulled back sharply, refusing to meet Christine’s eyes.

Christine laughed, but the tone of her laughter was so sweet and affectionate that Erik knew he wasn’t being mocked. She stroked his hand for a moment before letting go. “Goodbye, Erik,” she said, smiling up at him with so much warmth that he could feel himself blushing beneath his mask. “Be good.”

Tears pricked his eyes, but Erik didn’t want to drag Christine into his despair. He wanted to remember her like this— laughing and smiling in the sunlight, not sighing while he wept in her arms. He would contain himself; he would be good. Erik managed a weak smile of his own. “Goodbye, Christine.” And then, because he couldn’t stop himself: “I love you.”

The last words came out as a whisper, and Christine, who had moved to stand beside Raoul, did not hear or respond. Instead, she followed Raoul as he led her away, toward the entrance to the station where Madame Giry and her daughter were waiting to meet her.

Erik watched from a distance as Madame Giry and Raoul exchanged words and Meg, giggling hysterically, leapt at Christine and threw her arms around her. Christine laughed, too, and even from a distance, she was so beautiful Erik couldn’t tear his eyes off her. And he would have to survive six months without even the slightest glimpse. . .

The Girys went inside, but Raoul and Christine lingered by the doorway; they were saying goodbye. Erik tried not to torture himself by imagine what they were saying, but, of course, they kissed, and, of course, it was torture. Torture! How could it be anything but, to watch his angel being kissed as she deserved to be kissed— in the light, without fear— knowing he could never offer her such pleasure? No amount of goodness within would ever give him a face worthy of the light.

“ _And that boy of hers. . ._ ”

How easy being a decent man must be, with a face like that! Christine probably didn’t have to remind him to ‘be good’. No, he had said ‘I love you’, not in a whisper— because he didn’t have to whisper— and Christine had said, ‘I love you, too’. Worst of all, she meant it.

But Erik would not cry, not while there was still a chance Christine might look back at him. He did not want her to remember him as a hysterical wreck, no matter how broken and hysterical he truly was. Christine gave Raoul a parting embrace, then started to walk away. Erik felt his heart plummet in his chest.

As if she could sense his pain, Christine turned to glance over her shoulder. Erik stared back at her through the burning haze of tears. Christine smiled— a bittersweet but compassionate smile. She had not responded to his whispered “I love you”, but she had given him the gift of her smile one last time. That could not mean nothing.

And then she was gone.

Erik stood, frozen in place, until Raoul clambered into the carriage.

“Well, are you coming?”

Erik could not speak, could not even find it within himself to be angry with the vicomte. He moved in silence, pulling himself into the carriage, sinking downward into the seat. He remained stunned for another moment— then, as the carriage began to pull away from the station, Erik began to cry.

It did not matter that his greatest rival was witnessing such a moment of weakness— all that mattered was that Christine was gone, and all the world’s warmth and light had been drained away. It was as if the sun had been torn from the sky. It was an injustice, a tragedy, a catastrophe that could not be borne without tears, and so Erik cried. He forgot all he knew of pride or shame; he wept with abandon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> erik is a dramatic crybaby bitch but it be like that sometimes :/
> 
> also yes i kNOW we're on chapter four and we're just now starting to approach. the actual proper story. but we're getting there, all of the no people interested in this!!! patience!!!


	5. The Inconveniencing Begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raoul's first week alone with Erik somehow proves both less and more difficult to deal with than he anticipated.

That ghastly Erik cried _every second_ of the ride back from the train station. 

  
Raoul would miss Christine, too, of course— already, the thought of her filled his heart with wistful longing— but to carry on as Erik did, as if Christine was dead and buried instead of very much alive and very happy to be headed where she was. . . it was nothing short of shameful, not to mention annoying. Raoul tore a hand through his hair in frustration. Did Erik have to cry so _loudly_? He would have much liked to slap Erik, but he was certain if he did, no amount of promises to Christine would keep the creature from choking him to death with that lasso of his. 

 

At the thought of promises, Raoul sighed to himself. Mere hours had passed since he made his promise to Christine, and already he was having the most uncharitable thoughts about Erik. Erik had more than earned them, but that didn’t mean Christine would approve.  
  
“ _No,_ ” Raoul thought. “ _Christine would comfort him and dry his tears, even if we would all be better off if he cried himself to death._ ”

 

Normally, when Raoul pictured Christine interacting with Erik in any way, he felt a sharp, nauseating twist in his stomach. Was it fear? Disgust? Jealousy? Raoul couldn’t say, but, for some reason, he didn’t get the same sensation when he imagined Christine drying Erik’s tears. Maybe it was because Christine was gone, and there was no chance of that happening? Or, maybe, with his promise to Christine still heavy on his conscience, Raoul was feeling guilty instead? 

 

After a moment, Raoul understood. Before, he had always focused on Erik— how loathsome and vile he was, how completely unworthy of Christine’s time, and effort, and affection— but now, he thought of Christine. Christine, who was braver and kinder than anyone he knew, who gave Erik her time, effort, and affection out of the goodness of her heart. 

  
Raoul felt a pang of shame. He had always treated Christine with kindness and consideration and done his best to be a good husband to her, but he could be better. No, he _would_ be better, Raoul vowed to himself as he watched Erik out of the corner of his eye. He wouldn’t stoop to that creature’s level— he would rise to Christine’s, and prove his love for her by following her example of compassion and mercy. 

 

“Erik,” Raoul began.  
  
Erik slowly turned to face him. What Raoul could see of his face was twisted into a terrible expression that, in spite of his tears, could only be described as malevolent. “ _What?_ ”

 

Raoul shook his head. “Never mind.”

 

The rest of the ride passed in silence, aside from Erik’s continued sobs, which Raoul did his best to ignore. Unfortunately for Raoul, it was more difficult to ignore the way Erik crumpled to the ground the moment he stepped out of the carriage. 

 

At first, thinking Erik had merely tripped over his absurd cape and fallen, Raoul had rolled his eyes and continued on his way. Then, when he did not hear Erik get back up, he paused.

 

"Erik?"

 

No response. 

 

Sighing, Raoul turned and marched back toward the carriage, where Erik lay in heap, unconscious.

 

The coachman's eyes darted back and forth between Erik and Raoul. "I was ordered not to touch him," he said, throwing up his hands. 

 

"I know that," said Raoul, doing his best not to sound impatient. Raoul himself had told the servants never to touch Erik or enter his room when he moved in. It was a touch annoying to be reminded of his own orders, especially when they could prove inconvenient under the current circumstances. "Did you see how this—" he gestured at Erik. “--happened?"

 

The coachman shook his head. "No, I—"

 

"Thank you. I’ll take care of this from here," said Raoul, getting to his knees so he could examine Erik's pulse. "See to the horses, please."

 

"Of course." 

 

Erik's pulse was present; more than that, Raoul could not confidently assess. He was breathing- unevenly, but not more so than it had been while he was crying- and there did not seem to be any imminent threat of death. As far as Raoul could tell, Erik had simply shut down. Typical. 

 

Raoul rolled his eyes as he hefted Erik into his arms, steeling himself for the trek inside. Erik was heavier than his skeletal frame would suggest, yet somehow he felt even sharper and bonier. His body was cold to the touch. Despite the warmth of the summer air, Raoul shivered. 

 

The muscles in Raoul’s arms were screaming as he unceremoniously dumped Erik onto one of the chairs in the sitting room, but he had managed to carry him there without letting him fall.

  
“ _How’s that for an act of compassion?_ ” Raoul thought, rearranging Erik’s tangle of limbs so he appeared to be sitting almost naturally. “ _Christine would be proud._ ” 

 

Raoul lingered for a couple minutes, waiting for Erik to regain consciousness. He wasn’t sure what he would say or do when that happened, but it didn’t feel right to just leave him, even if he was safe. Still, as time passed and Erik showned no sign of stirring, Raoul surrendered his noble, if nebulous, intentions and left. He could not wait around forever, after all; he had other matters to attend to. 

 

Still, when Raoul passed by the sitting room later in the evening and saw that Erik had not moved from where he had left him, it was impossible to suppress a brief flicker of concern. 

 

“Erik?” he called. “Are you awake?”  
  
When Erik did not stir, Raoul decided to check his pulse again. He crossed the room slowly, making his foosteps as loud and clear as possible, and waved his hand in front of Erik’s face before attempting to touch him. He half-suspected Erik was playing some kind of trick on him and would suddenly spring awake. Perhaps, with Christine gone, he would revert back to his wicked ways and attempt to strangle Raoul with that ghastly lasso, or maybe he would make do with his own two hands. But Erik did not move.

 

Raoul lightly set his fingers against Erik’s wrist, feeling his pulse. It was still there, still going. . . but was it slower than before? Raoul frowned. Should he call a doctor? He doubted Erik would approve, and, for that matter, Raoul wasn’t sure he knew a doctor that would approve of Erik. Erik’s refusal to remove his mask could certainly complicate some forms of examination, not to mention arouse a doctor’s curiosity, medical and otherwise. 

 

Then again, Raoul could recall Christine saying that Erik slept very deeply, and sometimes for days at a time— perhaps he was only asleep. The notion was not a comforting one— there was nothing _comforting_ about Erik’s continued existence— but it calmed Raoul’s conscience enough to allow him to leave the room.

 

Erik was still asleep the next morning, and, if he had woken up during the night, he had managed to fall asleep in exactly the same position Raoul had set him in the previous day. Raoul couldn’t help but wince as he imagined how sore his joints would feel if he woke up after sleeping in a chair for more than a day. For a moment, he almost felt guilty for placing Erik in a chair instead of somewhere more comfortable, though, of course, he had not anticipated Erik _staying_ in that chair for so long. 

 

“ _Not that he doesn’t deserve all that pain and more, after everything he’s done,_ ” Raoul thought with particular venom as if to make up for his earlier flash of guilt. “ _He’s lucky I didn’t leave him lying in the dirt where he fell._ ” 

 

Raoul ate breakfast alone, his eyes wandering wistfully toward Christine’s empty seat. He wondered if she had slept well, if her train had arrived in Austria yet, if she was thinking of him, too. . . Then Raoul imagined the reproachful look Christine would give him if she knew the state he had left Erik in, and he rose, sighing, and left to put things right. 

 

Raoul stood in the doorway, tapping his foot as he contemplated various options. The simplest course of action would be to form a makeshift bed on the ground out of pillows and blankets and to set Erik there, but Raoul wasn’t sure if that would really be any more comfortable than the chair, which at least was fairly well-cushioned and not, well, on the _ground_.

 

On the other hand, all the proper beds were upstairs, and Raoul doubted he could carry Erik all that way without incident. Getting servants to help was out of the question; if Erik suddenly woke up, there was no telling how he would react. Raoul didn’t want to endanger anyone. He could have the servants help him move a bed downstairs instead, but that seemed like more trouble than Erik was worth. 

 

More trouble than Erik was worth, perhaps, but not too much trouble for Christine, whom Raoul would have to appease in order to quiet his conscience. 

 

With help from a couple servants, Raoul managed to bring a chaise lounge from one of the guest bedrooms into the sitting room. Afterward, he instructed the servants to tell the rest of the staff to avoid the sitting room until further notice so there would be no risk of one of them waking Erik and facing the consequences. Once they had gone, Raoul picked Erik up again— again, he felt cold, bony, and distinctly unpleasant, Raoul had never had to carry a corpse, but he assumed it would not feel any different— and set him on the chaise lounge. Erik did not stir for even a moment.

 

“ _He sleeps like the dead_ ,” Raoul thought, brushing his hands on his pants as if to wipe off any traces of Erik. “ _The most troublesome dead body I’ve ever laid eyes on— an inconvenience even in death._ ” 

 

Erik remained lost to the world for three more days, then he woke up, and Raoul realized that the inconveniences had only just begun. 

 

Erik awoke with a mania for deconstruction, as if he had to make up for the days where his mad, destructive impulses had lain dormant while he slept. He took apart the sinks in the bathroom, the light fixtures in his bedroom, beds, chairs, tables— nothing was safe from his prying hands. Servants would approach Raoul nervously with tales of Erik’s latest endeavor, and Raoul would go off to find him, already with the sinking feeling of a battle lost churning in his stomach. He would start off with a veener of calm, a reasonable: “Erik, what are you doing?”  


And Erik would look up from whatever fresh hell he was raising— in one instance, he had been methodically unscrewing all the wheels from the carriage. “I’ll put it back together when I’m done,” he would say each time. Then he’d go right back to wreaking havoc as if he had never stopped. 

 

At first, Raoul would argue, and Erik would lash back before storming off to play thundering dirges on the piano and weep bitterly— much to his dismay, Raoul could hear his sobs through the doors and over the music— and whatever he had taken apart would remain in its state of deconstruction until some poor servant was forced to attempt repairs. 

 

Eventually, Raoul learned to leave Erik alone. He always kept his word and put everything back together when he was finished with his. . . whatever it was he was doing. In the case of the carriage, it actually ran better than ever once it had been reassembled. 

  
“That Monsieur Erik’s a strange one, but he’d make a good living building carriages, I tell you,” said the coachman to a maid. “Rides smooth and even on all four wheels now— used to be, there was a bump in the back, but it’s been smooth as butter since Monsieur Erik took it apart.” 

 

Nevertheless, Raoul quickly tired of Erik and his mad genius experiments, and he was more than relieved when the daroga arrived a few days later. 

 

“I figured Erik would be in a poor state, with Christine so recently gone,” said the daroga by way of explanation. “I thought I would ask him to be my guest for a day or two, so I could keep an eye on him.” He shook his head. “I would have come here sooner, but I’ve been having the worst headaches lately, and I can only deal with one of those at a time.” 

  
“Please, take him,” Raoul whispered, his voice thick with desperation. “It hasn’t even been a week yet, and he’s destroying everything, and he’s insane, and _I’m_ insane, too, now, and I would shoot him if I could, but I _can’t_ , because Christine wouldn’t like it, and I promised, and I—”

 

The daroga set a firm, comforting hand on Raoul’s shoulder. “Get some rest,” he said firmly. “I’ll take him off your hands, for now. Erik will come with me, whether he wants to or not.”

 

It was all Raoul could do not to burst into tears. “Thank you.”  
  
The daroga smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “Of course.” His expression grew solemn. “Now, where’s Erik?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i actually updated for once fuck yeah!!! i NEVER do this (since i never even attempt multi-chapter fics), so if you're reading this fic and enjoying it, consider yourselves VERY special ;) ive already got a decent start on the chapter after this so there should be a much shorter wait between updates this time too, and the darogas gonna be in it so you know it'll be worth the wait


	6. Sour Thoughts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik hopes having tea with the daroga will distract him from thoughts of Christine

“Could you bring us some tea, Darius?” the daroga called to his servant. “And a lemon as well, please.”

 

“A slice of lemon?”

 

“No, a whole lemon.” The daroga glanced at Erik and sighed. “Unpeeled.” 

 

“Yes, sir.” 

 

Darius went off to the kitchen, leaving Erik alone with the daroga.  
  
Once Erik was certain that Darius was out of earshot, he spoke. “She’s gone, daroga.” Just uttering the words was enough to make his heart race in terror. Panic had been his dominant emotion since Christine had left— strong enough to rival even his dark despair and lovesick desperation. 

 

The first thing he had done upon waking from his three-day stupor was write an excruciating, unconscionably long letter to Christine that he burned on completion. Then, he wrote a shorter, less frightening letter; if his first letter had been _Don Juan Triumphant_ , then the second was some sweet little song from the opera that his Christine might enjoy. He apologized for not writing to her sooner, but left out the many paragraphs the first letter contained detailing the various ways he would suffer in Hell for letting a single day pass in which he did not write to her. Christine did not contemplate damnation as Erik often did; it frightened her, the poor thing. 

 

Once the letter was finished and sent, Erik stared at the wall for the better part of an hour, devoid of all thought or purpose, letting fear and panic creep through his veins. Then, as if with the flick of a switch, Erik burned with energy, with a terrible, manic desperation to do something, _anything_ that could distract him from the overwhelming dread that consumed him when he tried to imagine living for six whole months without Christine. 

 

He did play music, sometimes— dirges, laments, funeral masses— but it only made him feel worse. Music reminded him of Christine. He could not play without imagining her heavenly voice soaring alongside the pounding crush of desperate notes that poured from his hands, without imagining her near enough to touch. With Christine, music was a form of salvation; without her, it was agony. 

 

It was then Erik began taking apart and reconstructing anything he could get his hands on, trying and not altogether succeeding in losing himself in tasks that were intricate enough to offer some level of distraction yet common and artless enough not to remind him of Christine. The technique might be useful for a day or two, but it would certainly not last six months. 

 

The daroga, however— _he_ could be a good distraction.   
  
The daroga picked up the newspaper he had started reading before he left to get Erik. “So I’ve heard,” he replied without interest. 

  
Erik bristled, insulted by the daroga’s attitude of nonchalance. Didn’t he understand the magnitude of this tragedy? “I won’t last long without her love, daroga,” he said, raising his voice slightly. “I will die.” 

 

The daroga didn’t glance up from his newspaper. “You won’t die.”  
  
“You don’t _know_ that!” Erik protested, slamming his hand on the table. 

 

“Careful. It’s antique.” Although the daroga’s voice was as mild and unaffected as ever, Erik could see a flicker of annoyance cross his face. That was a start, at least. 

 

“Damn you _and_ your antiques, you meddlesome old booby!” Erik cried, rising to his feet in excitement. Oh, how good it would feel, when he had finally smashed through the daroga’s insufferable placidity! “If I destroyed everything you have ever owned and loved, you would know then only a fraction of the endless suffering I know now!”

 

“If you attempted to destroy everything I have ever owned and loved, I’d put a bullet through your head before the job was done,” said the daroga. Even when threatening murder, the daroga managed to sound calm and civil— entirely too reasonable for Erik’s taste. 

 

Erik scoffed. “You cannot kill me,” he said. “If you could, I’m sure you would have done so by now.”

 

The daroga laughed. “Maybe so, but, then again, maybe not,” he said, picking up the newspaper once more. “You do entertain me, sometimes. And it’s nice to talk with someone who knows my language, even if you do use it to threaten me and my furniture.” 

 

Erik, recognizing defeat, slunk back into his chair with a snarl. “It’s not very gentlemanly of you to be amused by my misery, daroga.”

 

“A lesson in manners from the brute who was just assaulting my table?” The daroga shook his head. “This should be good.”

 

Before Erik could dispense any wisdom, Darius returned and set a tray on the table. 

  
“Thank you, Darius,” said the daroga, putting his paper down and reaching for a teacup. He nodded at the lemon. “All yours, my friend.”  
  
Erik picked up the lemon and bit into it, savoring the daroga’s expression of weary disgust far more than the flavor. It wasn’t Erik’s preferred method of eating a lemon; when he was alone, Erik would peel the lemon and dip the peels into the tea before eating them, then eat the segmented fruit one piece at a time, but he couldn’t pass up a chance to needle the daroga. 

Even so, Erik found himself saving bits of the peel to put in the tea later. The daroga found that almost as abhorrent as eating the lemon whole, after all, and texture was far more pleasant— it almost made Erik think of licorice. 

 

Licorice. Erik grimaced. It was impossible to think of licorice without thinking of Christine. 

 

One afternoon, Christine was chattering away about her best friend, Meg Giry, whose birthday was coming up soon, and discussing possible gifts. She was getting her some candy, that much was certain, but what kinds, and in what amounts? Chocolates, gumdrops, licorice—

 

Erik had offhandedly mentioned that he had eaten licorice once, and all at once Christine’s far-off eyes had fixed on him with a sudden intensity that almost made him regret speaking at all. 

 

“Oh!” she exclaimed, eyes sparkling. “You like licorice?” 

 

Erik’s face burned beneath his mask, and he fidgeted, unsure of what to do with himself beneath the unexpected spotlight of Christine’s attention. He should have anticipated such a reaction; Christine had always been worried by his thin frame, especially since he had grown even frailer during his illness. It vexed her to no end that Erik did not eat as much as he should, and she was almost as distressed by the the fact that he seemed to take no pleasure from what little he did eat. 

 

The former, Erik understood as simple concern for his health, but the latter, he was unsure how to interpret. What did pleasure matter, under such circumstances? To him, food was a matter of survival, nothing more. Still, he was touched by Christine’s concern, and it was endearing, if a little overwhelming, how excited she got when she felt she had discovered something Erik would enjoy eating. 

 

“You must have some, then,” Christine continued, beaming. “I’ll buy some just for you while I’m out shopping for Meg.”

 

Though Erik’s feelings toward licorice were lukewarm at best, he could feel his lips quivering, anyway. He was helpless against Christine’s kindness in any form, and he couldn’t keep his voice from shaking slightly when he replied, “Thank you, my angel. I’d appreciate that.” 

 

After that, Christine would surprise Erik with licorice at least once a week, and he did learn to love the taste, if only by associating it with Christine. 

 

Erik realized he was crying when he felt the tell-tale itchiness of tears clinging to the skin beneath his mask, and he threw his half-eaten lemon down so abruptly that the daroga jerked his teacup away to keep it from getting knocked over. 

 

“What’s gotten into you, aside from more lemon than any human should be able to consume?” the daroga asked, raising an eyebrow. 

 

“Christine’s _gone_.” 

 

It was nothing Erik hadn’t already said, but the daroga could tell his words sprang from genuine emotion rather than a desire to provoke a reaction, so he responded with more sympathy than he had earlier. “But she will return,” he said, reaching out to clap Erik’s shoulder. Erik tensed, but did not pull away. “You will see her again, my friend. Provided you don’t die of grief, of course,” he added with a wry smile. 

 

Erik let the daroga’s hand linger on his shoulder for a moment before swatting it away with a growl. “Never do that again. I hate it.”  
  
The daroga took a sip of tea. “Noted.”

 

Erik frowned. “You’ll never do that again?” 

 

“Why would I?” The daroga raised an eyebrow. “You just told me not to, didn’t you?” 

 

Erik sulked, taking a bite out of his lemon to disguise his silence. The truth was, he didn’t _actually_ hate it when the daroga touched his shoulder. There was a time where he almost certainly would have, where such contact would have immediately thrown him into violent hysterics, but, now that he was more accustomed to physical contact, the daroga’s touch had been comforting. 

 

It was nothing, of course, compared to the gentle ministrations of Christine, but it would be six months— _six months!_ —before Erik could even hope to receive such a blessing again, so he was willing to take whatever scraps of solace he could find in the daroga’s rough but careful hands. 

 

Lemon juice and bitter regret twisted Erik’s lips into a dreadful scowl. Not that the daroga would bring him much comfort _now_.

 

“You’re useless to me, daroga.”

 

The daroga gave a rueful laugh. “To say you are useless to me would be an understatement.” 

 

Erik growled. “If you have brought me here only to mock me, I will leave at once.” 

 

“I brought you here because I thought it might be good for you to have a friend’s company at a time like this,” the daroga replied. “But if you continue to act like I fool, I will continue to laugh as if you are one.” 

 

“In what ways have I ever been foolish?” Erik snapped.

  
The daroga’s eyes lit up, and Erik immediately regretted having said anything.

 

Several minutes later, the daroga showed no signs of stopping. “And _then_ there was the time you tripped over your cape and fell face-first into that— Erik?” The daroga paused as Erik shoved his chair away from the table and began pacing back and forth. “What are you doing?”

 

Erik had long since stopped listening. Again the burning, again the mania, again the restless desire to do _something_ that could help him forget. But how could he forget that mere days ago, Christine had been _here_ and now she was _gone,_ probably for six months but possibly forever?

 

Life was cruel, immeasurably cruel— it would be just Erik’s luck to have been granted the unfathomable blessing of Christine only for her to be torn away by senseless tragedy. Should any harm come to her on her journey— 

 

Erik’s hands clenched into fists, but his anger was useless. Christine was beyond his reach, beyond his protection. There was nothing he could do but wait, and hope, and trust. . . 

 

“Daroga, is anything broken?” Erik heard his voice ring out suddenly. “Any pipes, anything electric?” He could feel his hands starting to shake; he grabbed onto one of the daroga’s infernal antique chairs to stifle the motion. “Do you need more chairs? I could build you a chair.” 

 

“I didn’t realize you had taken up carpentry,” said the daroga, amused by the suggestion. 

 

“I’m a genius!” cried Erik. “I take up everything!” He shoved the chair away in disgust and strode across the room, eager to put distance between himself and the daroga. “If you don’t trust my carpentry, fine! My master craftsmanship would be wasted on you, anyway! You are not worthy to sit in one of my perfectly constructed chairs!” In his indignant rage, Erik considered the fact that he had never built a chair in his life to be wholly irrelevant. 

 

The daroga sighed. “Why don’t you sit down, Erik? Your tea is going to get cold, and I don’t want to hear you complain about it.”  
  
Erik snarled, tapping his foot in impatience. Couldn’t that damned daroga see that sitting down was the last thing he wanted to do? His fingers twitched, aching for a task, and his heart raced. He felt sick, he felt faint, he felt like he would never be still again. His vision darkened at the edges as his lungs ceased to remember their purpose. It was nothing he hadn’t experienced before, but before—

 

He imagined Christine’s eyes fixed on his face in loving concern, her gentle hand on his back, her soft voice in his ear, reminding him to breathe. . .

 

Tears stung Erik’s eyes. Breathing. What was the point in breathing without Christine? He had drawn many breaths without her, before he knew her, but could that ever have been a life? No, that existence occurred in the liminal space between life and death, a distant, half-remembered purgatory. Then Christine, then the torment— then her gentle, healing love. Christine lifted his heart to the heavens; now, it slammed itself against his ribcage as if desperate to escape the hell that was life without her. 

 

Erik heard the daroga’s voice and stiffened, swiping at his tears. The daroga wasn’t some contemptible fool like de Chagny; it was shameful to fall apart in front of him. Not that Erik cared _so_ terribly what the daroga thought of him, of course. 

  
Yes, Erik had gone to the daroga before at his lowest moment— sobbing, pathetic, half-hysterical, and fully prepared to die— but he had expected death to deliver him from any lingering embarrassment. He hadn’t expected that Christine would come to him, would ask him to live. . .

 

“ _Well, now I’m alive,_ ” Erik thought bitterly. “ _And I must suffer the consequences._ ”

 

After a few deep but silent breaths, Erik slunk back across the room and sank into his chair, avoiding the daroga’s eyes. “I hate your decor,” he muttered, putting a spoonful of sugar in his tea simply to give himself something to do. He stared into the depths of his teacup as he stirred. “This sitting room is a museum of poor taste.” 

 

“And I’m having tea with the grand exhibit,” said the daroga, raising his cup in a mock-toast. “You have my poor taste in friends to thank for your life.” He took a sip of tea. “Had I been more discerning, you’d be an eyeless corpse rotting in Persia” 

 

Erik shook his head. “I would have escaped, had I wanted to,” he said, though he and the daroga had long since worn that argument to pieces without ever finding a proper resolution. “Just as I could easily escape from this conversation.”  
  
“If you wanted to,” said the daroga with a look that was entirely too smug for Erik’s taste. “But, as you’re you’re still here, I assume that means you’re enjoying yourself.”  
  
Erik did not deign to respond. Instead, he began to pick at his lemon in silence. The daroga could not completely distract him from the loss of Christine, but his conversation was slightly more engaging than the clock gears Erik had been toying with beforehand. Erik felt a wicked stab of spiteful amusement when he though of the grandfather clock’s austere black hands remaining stuck at half-past six until he returned to fix it. He had kept one of the gears in his pocket just to make sure none of the servants would be able to repair it while he was gone. 

 

Thinking of the broken clock and frantic servants made Erik think of Raoul, who had been driven to his wit’s end— a short distance, really— by all his manic tinkering over the past few days. Erik was pleased with himself for a moment, but when he considered his promise to Christine, the faint taste of triumph soured.

 

Of course, it was Raoul’s own fault for being so impatient as to be upset by something so harmless— it wasn’t as if Erik was _trying_ to provoke him, though the vicomte’s distress was certainly a welcome bonus— but that didn’t matter. Christine still would not have approved, and she was sure to be cross when she found out how Erik had behaved. 

 

Just the thought of Christine’s displeasure was enough to make Erik feel sick again. He wanted so desperately to be good for her, to be the man that she deserved, but all too often, goodness ran counter to his ingrained instinct, especially where Raoul was concerned. How could Erik be good when he was constantly forced to confront his greatest enemy, his rival for Christine’s affections? 

 

As if the daroga had been tracking Erik’s thoughts, he asked: “How is the vicomte? Have you driven him insane yet?”   
  
“He’s already insane, daring to love Christine when he is so disgustingly unworthy of her,” Erik snarled. “But my presence is not a calming one for him.” He drew himself up proudly. “My presence is not calming for anyone.” 

 

“But, you do not go out of your way to torment him?” The daroga persisted, fixing Erik with his interrogative stare. “You do not. . . construct secret passages in his home, or set traps for him, or make off with his possessions?” 

 

Erik let out a harsh burst of laughter. “Do not give me any ideas. No,” he added, scowling again. “No, upsetting the vicomte requires very little effort on my part. He receives no special treatment from me.” Erik tore off a bit of lemon peel with his teeth and ground it down. “But if I _did_ decide to torment him, it would be justified— entirely justified.” 

 

“And he would be justified in killing you,” the daroga replied. “After everything you’ve done.” He shook his head. “And yet, he allows you to stay in his home, where you repay this profound act of kindness and mercy by making a nuisance of yourself at every turn.” 

 

“Do not speak to me of kindness and mercy, daroga.” Erik’s voice went dangerously quiet. “Every day he continues to draw breath, it is because I allow it to be so. Every day of his life is a testament to _my_ kindness— _my_ mercy!” Erik sucked in a sharp, tremulous breath. “My kindness, my mercy, and my promise. . . my promise to. . . to. . .” Erik flung his chair aside and fled from the table so the daroga would not witness his tears. “ _Don’t look at me!_

The daroga was silent for a moment, waiting for Erik to calm down. “If you have made a promise, I hope that you will keep it,” he said after a minute or two had passed. 

  
Erik made a strange, curdled noise somewhere between a hiss and sob. “I always keep my promises.”  
  
The daroga did not attempt to recount the lives Erik had taken after his promise to kill no more; Erik would take refuge behind a shield of denial, comforted and protected by his own half-believed lies. There were subjects Erik was capable of discussing reasonably and others that he refused to consider. When Erik decided to retreat into delusions and madness, there was little the daroga could do to draw him out of it. Instead, he just sighed. “If you say so.”   
  
Erik trembled with rage. How dare the daroga insinuate that he would break his promise to Christine? How dare he take the vicomte’s side, praising his so-called “kindness and mercy”? The daroga had no authority on such a subject— the daroga hadn’t had to live with the vicomte all these months, to put up with his cruel taunts and crueler indifference. 

 

Erik clenched his hands into fists. As much as he loathed the vicomte’s pitiful attempts to rouse his fury, he hated it even more when the vicomte would ignore him, doing his best to pretend that Erik wasn’t even there. Erik was no stranger to solitude, but to be relegated to the role of ghost after Christine had brought him into the light— what kind of mercy was that? 

 

For over a year, Erik had lived with Christine and that insufferable boy, and never once had the vicomte offered him a single kind word or a scrap of amity. No, he met Erik only with ridicule and revulsion, a hostile guardedness in his shallow, pretty eyes, and those delicate, white-gloved hands ever evasive. 

 

No, no act of kindness—

 

With sudden clarity, Erik recalled himself waking up on a chaise lounge in the sitting room— a chaise lounge that belonged in a guest room upstairs, to be precise. His last memory before that was stepping out of the carriage into a sudden swooping blackness as despair overtook his senses and he fell to the ground. He remembered hitting the ground; he did not remember getting _off_ the ground, and he certainly did not recall dragging a chaise lounge down a flight of stairs. Erik’s mind, usually so adept, struggled to reconcile these fractured shards of information. 

 

Eriks’ face burned beneath his mask. Surely, the vicomte hadn’t—

 

Erik refused to imagine the vicomte carrying his unconscious figure into the sitting room, let alone procuring a chaise lounge for him. That was absurd. Erik shook his head as if to dislodge the memory that could not be true. He was merely confused; his mind was in disarray after Christine’s departure, and the chaise lounge a product of his unbalanced imagination. Even if he _had_ been carried inside, the vicomte would have had his servants do it. Yes, that was really the only logical explanation for what had happened. . .

 

Erik refused to acknowledge the wave of disappointment that came over him when he came to this conclusion. 

 

He said something to the daroga— something about his hideous curtains— and sat down again. The conversation resumed, though Erik was hardly aware of a word he was saying. He thought of the vicomte, Christine, his promise. . .

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me a few weeks ago, a poor, naive fool: oh ill have this done soon  
> me now, a wizened hag, drained by the act of existence: hhhhh words.................
> 
> I honestly did expect to finish this a lot sooner but life is a carnival of distractions so here we are now!!! I sure the fuck do not know when the next chapter is coming so I won't try to make any promises, but I will write it eventually so stay tuned!!!


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